


Scared Bears

by Percy_Anthony



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Project Freelancer, Project Freelancer Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 16:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7853182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Percy_Anthony/pseuds/Percy_Anthony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was the rookie, but they learned quickly. Clutzy, awkward and naive as he was; Agent Washington should not be cornered. He's like a scared bear when cornered, a scared bear with nothing to live for.</p><p>Inspired by Papanorth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scared Bears

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this: http://papanorth.tumblr.com/post/149375491696/everyones-small-cute-son-with-such-terrible

The missions was a complete, and total failure.

That said. It wasn't that bad. No one had died, and no one ended up dangerously wounded either. At least no one was yet, that might change when they tell the Director they failed to get the information he'd demanded. Yet, as York stared at Wash, sat across him in the back of the ship, he couldn't help but feel sick. Blood was spattered up and down the rookie, half his face completely masked in red like a hair dye job gone bad. His eyes drew to the blonde hair, wondering morbidly if the amount of blood laced in the short locks would actually change its color. The man was vaguely aware that he was the only one looking at Wash.

Everyone else was pointedly looking away. Carolina had made the sudden decision, upon their hasty boarding of the ship, to sit in the front with Niner. Connie and Maine sat on either side of Wash, whether it was to comfort the rattled rookie or to detain him if he tried anything York didn't know. North and South were sat on his side of the ship, for once not bantering - leaving them all in silence.

They kept on like this, in silence, for who knows how long. Finally, York knew what it would be like if he ever did get that day of quiet he always wanted, and he hated it. He tumbled his helmet around in his hands wistfully. Trying to avoid seeing his own, no doubt, pallid reflection in the helmet. As he twisted the object around, a small sound caught his attention. York looked up to find the source, but no one seemed to be talking. Before he could turn back to the captivating allure of his helmet he caught it - Wash, lips barely moving as he mumbled.

"What'dya say there, Rookie? Couldn't quite hear you", he asked, forcing his face into a smile. A smile that almost faltered when the unseeing gray eyes looked directly into his.

The others looked over discreetly as Wash began to speak, for the first time since they'd found him, "It was his fault. He - shouldn't have, cornered me. It's his fault."

"Of, of course", York felt sick, "Just, rest up. Okay, Wash?"

The mission was a complete, and total failure.

That said. It could have been worse.

* * *

 

"We need to find everyone and get the fuck out of here!" Connie yelled, ducking out from behind her cover to fire suppressing rounds.

"Tell me something I don't know!" York called back. His eyes scanned the field around them. He and Connie were behind the rubble of what used to be the most worthless building in society: A DMV. What should have been a simple get in-get out mission had turned into a bloodbath. Sure, it probably would have gone better if he hadn't tripped the alarm, but hey - Nobodies perfect. Except his body, it _is_ perfect. While Connie provided their cover, York had been scanning the area for the others. Some sort of interference was preventing him from accessing his radar and radio system. Still, in the line-up of missions gone wrong, this one wasn't that bad.

"What's the plan, York?"

"Uh? Pray for a miracle?"

"Coming right up!", a new voice entered the fray, and York managed to look around in time to see a grenade get lobbed over their cover to the enemy behind them. He and Connie cheered as the blast went off courtesy of one North Dakota. Finally, York spotted the actual lobber of the grenade, bright armor peaking out from behind yet another pile of building rubble. He slapped Connie's shoulder and gestured for them to move. A quick replacement of the clip in his gun, and off they went.

Bullet's peppered the ground at their feet, just missing them as they fled. Obviously, one grenade isn't enough to ward off a literal army of assailants. Connie was just a hair faster than him, skidding behind North's cover seconds before he did.

"Woo!" he cried in jubilation, "Thank's North! You're my actual angel right now."

"Well you can pray to me later, right now we need to get out of here!"

"Tell me something I don't know", Carolina's voice broke in. York looked around, happy to see everyone was here. Carolina stood tall as she scanned the field, a pillar of freelancer excellence. Save for the dirt and ash smeared across the blue armor, she was unscathed. York was always being constantly reminded of why she was the number-one on the leader board.

"What's the plan 'Lina?"

She turned to look at him, the slit of her visor cutting through the smoky air, "Get the fuck out. Missions a bust, we're retreating to the ship. Niner should be waiting for us at the pick-up point by now."

"Wait" - Connie interrupted - "Where's Wash?"

A pit formed in York's stomach. He whipped his head around, looking for the familiar armor. If they weren't in the middle of a life or death situation York would kick himself for forgetting about the kid. To be fair, the murmur that rolled over the group was indication enough that he wasn't the only one to forget.

"Shit..." Carolina whispered. Maine was pacing, just barely behind the rubble cover, his hands tight around his weapon. His helmet was looking around rapidly for his friend. York himself didn't even realize he had stood until a hand had wrapped around his wrist, preventing him from waltzing out of cover to search for the rookie. It had turned out to be North, and despite being unable to see his expression the grip around his arm was just shaking enough to tell him how worried the other was.

"We've got to look for him."

"Shit!" Carolina said again, "Fine, everyone, split up and look for Wash, but head in the direction of the pick-up point. We can't stay out here much longer!"

Agreement echoed out from all of them and they moved. Carolina darted out ahead of them, followed up by Maine. Despite his worry, York smiled at the display the two put on - the tough act shed in a matter of moments. Quickly, though, he and the others did the same - search for the Rookie beginning in haste.

The battlefield was in tremendous ruins, so many buildings reduced to rock and ash long before they'd even gotten here. York should know why, but he'd honestly tuned out to the Counselor's monologue of a mission briefing. He knew his job. Even if he had screwed up a little. A bullet whistled by his head. Yeah, only a little screw-up. North was by his side as he weaved through the cover, the two firing back at their enemy while their heads owled around the battlefield in search for their friend. Worried as he was, York was sure that Wash was fine; his mind already turning to keeping track of his kill-count. Once they found him the lockpick would be sure to rub his winning number in the kid's face.

Rubble pieces grew larger the closer they all drew towards the pick-up point. Eventually, even North didn't need to crouch down to be in cover. Far enough away from the enemy base the hail of bullets slowed and thinned out as they searched.

"Where the hell is he?! When I find him I'm gonna kill him!" North snapped, voice warbling with worry.

York's eyes rolled, "Sure ya are. He's fine North, he's probably just lost."

Attention diverted to North, the lockpick forgot to watch his feet, nearly causing him to topple over an object on the ground.

"Oh fuck!", he snapped, fall prevented by a quick move from North. They were in a Tango-like position, but before York could make a comment on the pose North pushed him aside in favor of the object he'd tripped over.

"What? I didn't even say anything yet!"

"Shut up and look at this", North pushed the object into his face. Wash's rifle. His heart skipped a beat at the sight or more or less at the lack of Wash attached to the sight of the kid's rifle. His heart nearly stopped again when a blue blur dropped down next to them. He did not scream. Not even a little.

Carolina grabbed the rifle from North's hands, "Fuck, he's unarmed."

The others rounded the corner, Connie cursed at the unmanned weapon - as if it was the sole cause of Wash's sudden disappearance. Hell, maybe it was.

"Keep looking." She threw the weapon to the ground. "We're running out of time, though, stay close."

They dashed. This time, York was searching alone. Dipping under rubble, climbing over it, searching for even the smallest trace of the yellow striped idiot. Voices called out for Wash, disregarding any semblance of stealth they may have been trying to reserve. For once in their lives, York wished they would just be quiet. Behind his visor, his brow knitted into an angry glare. He tried to focus on his surroundings looking for any sign of the rookie. A helmet, another rifle, maybe that stupid silly straw of his - although, he'd probably question why the rookie had taken that of all things onto the battlefield.

Time seemed to drag on as he drew further from the others, their voices now distant enough for him to actually listen to what he heard around him. A curious sound began to fill his ears. Like water dripping against the pavement. Creaking, cracking, crunching. York drew towards the sound, weapon rose preemptively as followed the sounds call.

"If we don't find him within the minute, we're leaving!" Carolina yelled.

"Negative", Maine grumbled.

"This is not up for debate -"

Connie cut in, "He's disarmed we can't just -"

"Um, yeah we can!" South protested.

York groaned at the interrupting sounds. He shook his head as he continued towards the source. He turned around a corner to see a familiar sight. Grey and yellow painted his vision, a breath of relief escaped his lungs. Wash was crouched over something, his helmet was missing for some reason. York stepped forward, once again ignoring the ground he tripped over something. Thankfully he was able to stabilize himself without North's help. Looking to the ground York found the aforementioned helmet. A soft smile rose to his lips and he picked up the object.

"Cool it, everyone, I found the kid!" he called, before lowering his voice to talk to Wash, "Wash, you alive?"

No response. Wash continued to crouch over, whatever it was he was crouched over. Now York finally saw that Wash wasn't just crouched, his fists were pounding into whatever it was as well. An eyebrow quirked in confusion but he stepped forward regardless. Suddenly, he was aware of the source of the sound he had been following.

Creaking, cracking, crunching.

He took one step too far.

Sound flooded his ears. He could hear nothing else. And he could see. Wash was not crouched over an "it", but a man, or what used to be a man. Armored fists pummelled into what could have been a skull, unprotected as Wash had no doubt ripped the man's helmet away to bury his fists into the man's head. Blood was painted across the pavement like a Jackson Pollock painting gone wrong. Pollock turned to Picasso as York's eyes shakily looked from the ground to Wash himself, where blood was thick on his skin. Dried into his hair, into his eyelashes, and in his mouth where blood-stained teeth were clenched like a grizzly bear's muzzle.

A shuddering sound York barely recognized as his own breathing was overcome by the rhythmic beat of the metal armor on Wash's hands slammed into the pulverized bone before him. One slam against the head flew a piece of meat onto York's visor. He breathed in so hard he could feel the quick wind cut his throat, the shock quaking him backward away from the scene. Hands raced to wipe the gore away, dropping the helmet to the ground with a loud clatter.

Creaking, cracking, crunching - ceased.

The blood smeared over his visor, a red hue cast upon what he saw. Slowly, Wash turned to him, hand armor once gray so deeply covered in blood they dripped now that they were immobile. Hands shaking, York debated whether or not he should be raising his weapon in defense. Freckled face masked by red, Wash was now fully facing him. Eyes dilated and unblinking they locked onto York.

And then, "... York?"

Now the gray eyes, the only thing on Wash's face unstained, were blinking wildly. As if he was unsure of where he was, expression twisted in confusion as he looked at the lockpick in hopes he would have an explanation. Less like a bear, and more like a man just very scared - Wash stared up at him. York realized he had indeed, raised his weapon. Horror growing with each passing second he dropped the weapon, letting it's strap hold it up instead.

"York! Thank god you found -"

"Oh my god."

"I'm going to be sick, what the fuck Wash!?"

York didn't pay attention to who was saying what. Instead, he just stared at Wash. Maine was suddenly in his field of vision, pulling Wash up and off the remnants of a man. The rookie's knees nearly buckled, if Maine wasn't holding the kid up he would have fallen face first back into the puddle beneath him. Like it would have mattered, York was sure that he couldn't possibly get any filthier. A hand landed on his shoulder, for a moment he didn't move but a light shake of his shoulder managed to get him to look over.

Carolina. Head tilted just enough to avoid looking directly at the scene. A retching sound could be heard, once York recognized North's voice whispering to someone he realized it was coming from South.

"Back to the ship. Now." Carolina ordered. Voice sent a chill down York's spine

No one protested.

* * *

 

The mission was a complete, and total failure.

That said, at least York finally had a good idea on why Wash was picked for Project Freelancer. Sure he was one hell of a shot on an occasion, even pretty damned good with knives but York had never seen any one special talent in the kid. Now, though, beyond the naivete, there was something else lurking behind the blood. Freckles. But beyond that was something even worse.

Once again the room had fallen into silence. Wash was looking at York with some weird expression he couldn't place. Somewhere between fear and desperation. Despite himself the lockpick couldn't help but tear his eyes away, the last split second he caught of Wash's face had degraded down into pure lament. Maybe when York's heart slows down again he'd feel guilty for putting that expression there. For now, he just wanted to keep what little food was in his stomach.

The mission was a complete, and total failure.

That said, he was sure that while the Director was chewing them out York would hear only one sound.

Creaking.

Cracking.

Crunching.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me, friends, for my inability to finish anything. Here have a one-shot instead of a new chapter for the things people actually want.


End file.
